Submission (#1354) Approved

It was early twilight in the gentle woodlands of Miron Valley, and little Yuki was in one of their most adventurous moods. The sky was a blend of lavender and blush, with stars just starting to peek through the veil of dusk. A soft breeze whispered through the groves, carrying with it the sweet scent of blooming twilight poppies and the soft chime of creders flying overhead.

Yuki’s world was normally full of wonder and warmth—cushioned in mossy dens, nuzzled by their elders, and lulled to sleep by the lapping waters of the nearby crescent pond. As the youngest in their family clutch, Yuki was small and spirited, a playful bundle of shimmering lavender scales and soft, downy fluff. Her horns were just beginning to take shape, delicately with a pearly sheen, and her fluffy tail flicked like a playful ribbon through the air.

That evening, while the others napped under the watch of the elders, Yuki felt a buzzing in her chest—a sort of brave flutter, like something inside was calling them to explore. So, with a tiny squeak of determination, Yuki trotted off through the silvergrass thicket and toward the edge of the crescent pond.

It was a place Yuki had only seen from a distance before, glinting mysteriously in the moonlight. The elders warned the young not to go near at night—not out of fear, but because the pond was said to reflect not only the world above but also the things you carried inside. Yuki didn’t understand what that meant exactly. What could a reflection show besides sky, water, and your own happy little face?

As she padded up to the mossy edge, Yuki peered in.

At first, it was magical. Fireflies hovered lazily above the pond’s surface, their glow bouncing off the ripples. Yuki leaned over, giggling at the way their fluffy mane puffed out like a cloud. They swirled their paw in the water, watching the image distort and shimmer.

Then… something changed.

A ripple passed across the pond—but not from Yuki. The water trembled as if stirred by a gustless wind, and the reflection shimmered unnaturally. Yuki blinked, their heart thudding a little faster.

Their own reflection… wasn’t smiling anymore.

In the water, the mirrored Yuki looked back at them, eyes dull and wide, mouth downturned, as if frightened. Yuki blinked again and backed up slightly, ears twitching.

The image remained. Then it moved.

Without Yuki moving a muscle, the reflection’s horns began to twist and grow, curling like stormclouds. The pond darkened beneath the mirrored crederian, shadows pooling beneath the surface like ink spreading through milk.

Yuki let out a small, confused chirp. This wasn’t playtime anymore.

From the depths of the reflection, something began to rise. It was not Yuki’s face anymore—it was something else entirely. A massive, shadowed shape loomed upward in the pond’s center, eyes glowing like cold embers. It was horned and scaled like a crederian, but its limbs were long and twisted, its expression hollow and hungry.

Frozen with fear, Yuki stared, unable to look away as the shadow lifted higher from the depths. A chill curled around their paws. It wasn’t just in the water—it was coming.

With a sharp yelp, Yuki stumbled backward, tail flicking wildly, and fell into a clump of bluebell ferns. The noise snapped something inside them—the brave flutter turned into a trembling flutter, and tears pricked the corners of their eyes.

Yuki turned to run, but in their panic, they tripped on a mossy root and tumbled forward with a soft thud. They curled up instinctively, fluff shielding their face, ears tight to their head, whimpering softly.

But instead of darkness or shadow or anything cold and cruel, what reached them next was warmth.

Soft fur brushed against Yuki’s back. A gentle nose nuzzled their mane. The familiar scent of sky-chamomile and meadowdew wrapped around them like a blanket. It was Luma—Yuki’s older sibling and the bravest crederian Yuki knew. Luma had noticed Yuki missing and followed their faint trail to the pond.

Luma said nothing at first, only humming gently and stroking their tail across Yuki’s side in slow, comforting waves. It was a sound that had always made Yuki feel safe, like sunlight through clouds or a lullaby on the breeze.

Yuki hiccuped a few sobs, trembling less with each hum.

Eventually, Luma tilted their head and looked toward the pond, which now glimmered gently once more, only reflecting moonlight and a few sleepy fish drifting beneath the surface.

“The crescent pond shows shadows, sometimes,” Luma said quietly. “But only when your heart is feeling something you don’t know how to say yet.”

Yuki looked up, eyes wide and watery.

“You weren’t in danger,” Luma continued, nuzzling Yuki’s forehead. “But the pond saw your worry, your tiny brave heart trying to do big things. And it made it into something scary so you’d understand it needed a hug.”

Yuki sniffled, processing. Their little voice cracked, “The shadow was me?”

“In a way,” Luma smiled gently. “But not the bad kind. Just the part of you learning how to be brave and careful at the same time.”

Yuki leaned in close, tucking themselves under Luma’s thick fur. They stayed like that for a long time, watching the pond return to peace, fireflies dancing over the surface like tiny stars.

From that night on, Yuki never feared the crescent pond again. They still visited, but always with someone they trusted nearby. And though the shadow never returned, Yuki sometimes thought about it—not with fear, but with understanding.

Because that was the night Yuki learned that even the gentlest hearts can feel scared, and even the softest creatures have shadows. And that being brave doesn’t mean never being afraid. It means learning how to listen to that fear, and knowing when to reach out a paw—and when to take one that’s reaching back.

Reward	Amount
✨ Coins	9